


Hearing

by EmmaArthur



Series: Sense [2]
Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Hyperaccusis, John is Not Okay, Meltdown, Mourning, Mutations aren't all rainbows, Sensory Processing Disorder, Tag to 1x11, shutdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-26 00:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16208894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaArthur/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: Enhanced hearing isn't just a gift. John is tired and overworked and mourning, there are too many people at Headquarters and too many things to take care of. He can't go on like this forever.Clarice tries to help.





	Hearing

**Author's Note:**

> [sensory overload, shutdown, meltdown, non-graphic description of self-harming stims, mentions of psychiatric commitment]
> 
> Second in the Sense series, about John's mutation and how it affects his daily life. Set somewhere in the middle of S1E11, after the Struckers leave but before the Fairburn station is hit.

John nearly stumbles into the computer room, exhausted. Looking at the time on the monitor, he realizes he's just spent nearly three hours trying to get the people in the bank to calm down, the tensions having reached a critical level with the Frost sisters' visit.

“You okay?” Sage asks, turning away from the screens.

“I'm fine,” John snaps. He deflates immediately. “Sorry, but I'm fine. It's just a bit loud out there.”

“Yeah,” Sage nods.

John is relieved when she doesn't ask anymore questions and turns back to her computers, leaving him to try to settle his mind. Everyone in the building seems to be arguing loudly with each other, never taking a break, and he can hear every single conversation pressing on his mind.

The only thing John wants to do right now is go outside for a run, but it's impossible. There are so many things to organize, to do, and he's tired enough that it wouldn't be a good idea anyhow. He needs to call the Fairburn station to organize the Struckers' arrival, since they've just left−he understands all too well their position, but it doesn't make his job easier when there are already so many issues to take care of. He needs to find room for the new refugees coming in from Loganville, thankfully only a handful this time, and they're nearly running out of food and supplies. And then there's the business with the Frosts.

He's not sure where he stands with it. He already knows Lorna and Marcos's respective positions−and dearly wishes he didn't have to listen to them arguing, tearing apart their couple, on top of everything else. Clarice is too new to the network to make decisions this size, although John has no doubt she'll express her opinion loudly, and Sage has already decided to stay neutral on this one. And Sonya's gone. That leaves him to shoulder the burden of making the call.

Only he can't even tell what's right or wrong right now.

It's all too much. The noise is making him feel nauseous, or maybe it's the lack of sleep. He hasn't been able to sleep properly−or at all, if he's honest with himself−since the influx of new refugees overcrowded the bank. There's always something, someone awake and moving or having a nightmare who wakes him up as soon as he finally goes to sleep. It's been a long time since John has been this affected by his enhanced senses, but he can't afford to sleep with ear defenders on, since he's the only one who could hear the Sentinel Services or the police come from far away. The safety of this place has to come before his own comfort.

John steels himself before crossing the main room again The noise level inside is unbearable. Not for the first time, he wonders how all these people stand it, thrive in it even. This has been going on all day, and he's still reeling from Sonya's memorial this morning. It's been a few days since Clarice and the Strucker children came back without her, but John feels like it only sunk in today. He pinches the bridge of his nose against his headache, resisting pressing his hands against his ears.

He loses control halfway through walking to Marcos's room to talk with him. Unable to concentrate, even just on walking, John leans on the railing, overwhelmed with the activity around him and the loud arguing still coming from every direction. It's too much.

Struggling to just stay upright, John doesn't notice Clarice approaching until she's at his elbow.

“You're going to pull it apart if you keep going,” she says, indicating the railing.

Looking down, barely comprehending her words, John sees that the metal and wood bar is bending and cracking in his hands. It takes him far too long to remember how to relax his grip.

“What's wrong?” Clarice asks.

John can't seem to get words past his mouth, standing there unmoving because his brain is too overloaded for him to even get out of the situation causing him pain. Talking seems more of an effort than it's worth, but he can feel Clarice's worried gaze on him. The time in which it would be appropriate to answer has long passed and now it's just weird.

“Too loud,” he croaks out finally, and he misses the railing in his hands grounding him. He pushes a hand through his hair instead, pulling at it until it hurts.

Clarice hesitates, but he's too far gone to wonder why. There are still half a dozen people arguing downstairs, and children running past them almost take him over the edge.

“Come on, let's get you out of here,” Clarice says, pulling on his elbow.

She doesn't say anything more until they're outside, and John is grateful. The loading area in front of the bank is quiet, but John resists Clarice's pull as she makes to sit on the steps and keeps walking. He voluntarily goes in a different direction than the makeshift graveyard where they did the morning ceremony, not ready to confront that just yet.

When the noise from the bank−John is pretty sure Clarice hasn't been able to hear it since they passed the front doors, but it never leaves him−fades to a bearable level, John lets himself slide down to the ground, his back against a large tree. He still wants to press his hands to his ears, but the urge is less strong now.

Now he just needs to deal with Clarice. She seems to be around every time he lets his guard down. Where did the days go when everyone left him alone to deal with his issues because they trusted him to lead them?

Clarice seems to be torn between confronting him and giving him space. She's not touching him anymore and he feels marginally better−that's good. It means there's little risk of him reacting in a bad way and hurting her. He's honestly surprised that she dared touch him after she saw what he did to the railing.

“Can I ask...what that was?” she says finally, sitting down beside him but still at an arm's reach.

John sighs and puts his head in his hands. After what she's just witnessed, now and earlier, this morning after the ceremony, another show of weakness from him won't make much of a difference. Clarice is strong, stronger than most of the mutant in the station. She doesn't need his reassurances.

And perhaps he's starting to seek hers.

No, he can't rely on her to hold him together. Not when she's looking for something more and he can't give it to her. Not when the world is falling apart around them.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Right,” Clarice states, disbelief coloring her voice. “That looked like it was nothing.”

John sighs and raises his head, not meeting her eyes. “Look, I just−” He looks for a way to explain that doesn't take too many words. Speaking still feels like too much of an effort, but she deserves something. “I hear...a lot. Sometimes it gets too much. Today's been−”

Well, she knows what today has been. She nods and reaches out to take his hand. John nearly recoils, afraid, still, that he could hurt her, but he lets her.

“It's always been like this?”

John nods and looks down at his feet. Being here in the forest is soothing, almost, despite the fact that he can still hear the mutants inside the bank, the birds singing above them, see the traces of animals all around him−they always come with images and smells and sounds he knows aren't actually there.

John can remember a time when this scared him, sensing things that aren't there. He's used to it now, it's barely present at the edge of his conscience as long as he doesn't let himself get overloaded.

“Since I manifested,” he says when Clarice seems to still be looking for an answer.

His brain is settling again. He doesn't know if it's sitting here, or Clarice's hand around his−he can barely feel the weight of it, but he doesn't dare squeeze it−but speaking is getting easier.

“Does it hurt? I mean, I could see you felt bad, but...does it always hurt?”

“The noise?” Johns asks. Clarice nods. “Not all the time, but...anything loud can be painful, yes. Or when there's too many things going on at the same time, too many sources of noise.”

“It must be awful, all these people crammed in here since the refugees started coming,” Clarice remarks.

John lets out a small laugh, and she gives him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Nothing, it's just...you and Marcos are so alike sometimes. You've been through all kinds of things since coming here, but you keep worrying about other people. He forbid me from giving up my room to a family because he knew I wouldn't be able to sleep in the main room.”

“Are you? Sleeping, I mean.”

John sobers up and looks away.

“That's what I thought,” Clarice mutters.

“I don't need you worrying about me, Clarice,” John grumbles.

“If I don't, who will?” Clarice asks, before she realizes what her words imply. John freezes and her face falls.

In an impulse he rarely gives into, John rams his head hard into the trunk behind him. The tree is old and large enough that it only swing a little. The too fresh pain of Sonya and Gus's losses is too much to handle for John in that moment, still half overloaded and nauseous. He hits his head several more times, enough to cause actual pain, and curls up on himself with a low moan.

Sonya would have hugged him in spite of the danger he represents, proposing to help with her powers even though she knew he would never accept. Gus would have flashed his eyes until John's senses dulled and held him tight, murmuring meaningless encouragements and stroking his back just so John could hold on to the sharp, wonderful touch.

Clarice stares. Tears he never wanted escape John's eyes, and this is the second time today she's seen him cry. Hell, he's shed more tears in the last few days than he has in years.

“Dammit,” he mutters, drying his face with his sleeve.

“I'm sorry,” Clarice says in a low tone, extending a hand to squeeze his arm. John can barely feel it through his jacket, but he looks at her.

How she's still not afraid of him, after watching him lose control like this, is beyond his understanding. But her heart rate hasn't even picked up.

“Not your fault,” he answers. His voice is rough and broken, but he's beyond caring at this point.

“I told you I want to help. What can I do?”

“I don't know,” John says. “There's a lot to do. I don't even know where to start with the Frosts' proposal, and we still have refugees coming in−”

“Those can wait,” Clarice interrupts him. “I know it's important,” she says before he can protest, “but you need to take time for yourself too. You've been running yourself into the ground.”

John shakes his head. “What else am I supposed to do? Things are falling apart, we're losing ground faster than we can find our footing. At this rate, there will be nothing left of the network in another month.”

“We can't−”

“What, we can't think like that?” John explodes, shaking off her hand with a brusque move. “People are dying, Clarice! _We_ are dying!”

“I know that!” Clarice shouts, and there's too much desperation in her voice. “I was there! I watched her die!”

All the rage drains out of John, and he lets his head fall back against the tree. Clarice curls in on herself tightly, and they can't seem to even look at each other. Somehow in his selfishness John lost track that they've all lost a friend, that Clarice was the one who saw it happen. And the Strucker children. God, he hasn't even really checked on them since they came back, and he's been letting Clarice comfort him as if−

“Come here,” he murmurs, and Clarice lets herself tumble to the side until she's nestled against his body. John puts his arm around her. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“Not your fault,” Clarice sends back. John can't see her face anymore, but he can hear the cracking in her voice.

“I should have seen how hard this has been for you.”

“John, you can't shoulder everything. That's what I was trying to tell you.”

“I have to−” John starts.

“No, you don't,” Clarice interrupts him. “You're not alone here. You need to let us help.”

“You're helping. You've been doing plenty of things−”

“Not like that. You're cracking up, John. You're not sleeping, and you're running around all day instead of taking the time you need to grieve.”

John shakes his head. “I can't just do nothing when  there's so much to take care of. I should go back.” He tries to stand up, but Clarice doesn't let him. Not that he couldn't easily force his way up, but he's too afraid to hurt her.

“No you don't,” she says, shifting so she's looking at him again instead of curled up in his arms. “You're taking a break.”

John opens his mouth, and she, boldly, covers it with her hand. “I'm not taking no for an answer.” She releases him, but he can only stare.

“Look, if it was anyone else in your place right now, what would you tell them? If it was Marcos, or Lorna? If it was me?”

John sighs, beaten. “I'd tell them to rest,” he admits.

“There you go,” Clarice says with a triumphant smile.

“Fine. I suppose I can take five.”

“Um,” Clarice mutters, clearly about to argue with that, but she decides to take the victory. She crosses her legs and stares at John until he relaxes his stance.

“You don't have to stay with me, though,” he says.

“Yeah, and I'll bet on how long you'll stay here if I'm not here to force you.”

John rolls his eyes, but he can't help smiling a little at her determined expression.

They keep staring at each other for a while, until Clarice breaks the silence again.

“Earlier, you said you hear everything since you manifested,” she says. “What was that like? How old were you?”

John's mind is still half worrying about the tasks he's currently skipping and the states of things in the station, but he finds himself wanting to share more than he'd expected.

“I wasn't exactly born with my physical mutation like you, but I sort of grew into it,” he says. “I was stronger and heavier than any other kid, so I knew I was a mutant from early on. I was fourteen when my senses started developing. Suddenly I could hear things from miles away, I could see things before they even happened, I mean… I'm sure it was scary from the outside, but inside… Everything was so loud, so bright. I thought I was going mad.”

“What happened?”

“I had just hit a growth spurt, and that meant a spurge of extra strength. I couldn't control any of it, the tracking, my new strength, the hypersensitivities… I lashed out. When you have super strength, losing control is not a good idea. I nearly killed my little brother. The only thing that saved him was that he had similar abilities.”

“Had?”

John shrugs. “I haven't been back there since. He was eight when I left. I don't know where he is now, or if he's even alive.”

Clarice gives him a look of compassion. John shakes his head sadly. After all this time, James has just become one of the numerous people who haunt his nights.

“What happened afterwards?” Clarice asks.

“My parents...they meant well, but they were afraid. Being strong is one thing, but this new power that they didn't understand, that was hurting me and people around me, it was too much. At first they tried to hide it, to hide me, but after the accident they let the doctors take me away.”

“They put you in detention?”

“Not detention. Psychiatric care. They didn't make much of a difference between a mutant with a psychic ability and someone with a mental illness, back there.” John trails off briefly, lost in his thoughts. He's never told her, but he and Lorna have more in common than she thinks. “To be honest, at that point I thought I belonged there, too,” he adds.

“John−” Clarice starts. “I...I didn't mean to bring up bad memories.”

“It's okay,” John smiles at her. “I didn't stay there for long. The Professor found me.”

“The professor?”

“Professor X. Charles Xavier. He was the creator of the X-Men, and a powerful telepath. He had this machine that could amplify his abilities until he could reach basically the whole world. I guess I must have been reaching out unconsciously, and he heard me. He had a school for mutant children who needed help, and he offered me a place.”

“A school for mutant children,” Clarice repeats dreamily. “It sounds like a great place.”

“It really was,” John smiles, bittersweet memories coming to him. “It was in this really large mansion, castle even, and most of the teachers were part of the X-Men.”

“So you knew the X-Men. Before they−” Clarice makes a vague gesture with her hand.

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“No. They just...disappeared, not long before 7/15. I was still in Afghanistan back then.”

Clarice nods. “How long were you at the school?”

“Until I graduated. It took me a while to find my footing again, to get my abilities under control. I hid behind dark glasses and ear defenders for a while, didn't get out much. The school was always full of kids running around, so that was pretty hard to deal with at first. But I learned to sort out what my senses were telling me, though I never lost the hypersensitivities, as you just saw. The Professor and the X-Men made it one of their missions to get us to that point where we could be comfortable with our powers. It's also where I got my first combat training.”

“Why did you enlist?” Clarice asks. “Why didn't you stay on to become an X-Man?”

“It was before 7/15, the situation back then was nowhere near as bad as it is now. I felt like they didn't need me. Their methods were...they wouldn't have worked for me. It was all very high tech and clean and sharp. I didn't fit.”

“What do you mean?”

“They say the mutations we develop are random, but mine is deeply connected with my people. The tracking, I learned that with my grandfather, long before I manifested. My family kept very connected to the old traditions, I didn't even speak English before I went to school. I was too obviously mutant for the reservation, but at the school, I was too Native to fit in. I mean, all of us had different backgrounds, but the school was like a mix of a high end private academy and a powerful secret organization. I didn't belong there.”

“So you...what, you got a tattoo, started calling yourself Thunderbird and enlisted in the Marines?”

John laughs. “Not exactly,” he says. “The bird mark isn't a tattoo, it's part of my mutation. The name started as a joke, we all had to chose a code name. The men in my unit chose it for me because of the mark, but the Thunderbird isn't even an Apache myth. I hated it at first but it just...stuck.”

John lowers his eyes to his hands, carefully not thinking about the fact that he's the only member of the unit who's still alive. Clarice picks up on his change of mood and lays a hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” she says. John looks up to meet her eyes. “For telling me this.”

“Is this enough of a break for my jailer?” John asks, acknowledging her words with a nod and a smile. “'Cause I really should go back inside.”

“I'm okay with that,” Clarice starts, holding up a hand to keep John from leaving right away, “but only if you promise to get some real sleep tonight.”

“Clarice… I don't exactly stay awake on purpose.”

“You said something about ear defenders. That helps?”

“A little, but I can't afford to let my guard down right now, not with the Sentinel Services closing in on us,” John says.

“But you're human too. You need sleep. We can double the watch for one night and extend it, if that's what it takes.”

John sighs. The idea doesn't completely sit right with him, but he also doesn't know how long he can do this without dropping. “Fine,” he says. “One night.”

Clarice nods. “Let's go then.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this is rather heavily inspired by my own experience with autism-related hyperaccusis and Sensory Processing Disorder. I ended up writing John as far more autistic than I meant to, but it felt right at the time, as he has similar sensory issues, that he would have the same ways of coping... Please tell me what you think!


End file.
